No Sense Of Direction
by LadyPaperclip
Summary: Things weren't meant to get quite so out of hand. Slash, OwenIanto, with hints at OwenGwen and JackIanto
1. Here

_**Author's Notes:**_** I obviously don't own these guys, so being sued would suck :D I started writing this series just after **_**Greeks Bearing Gifts**_** aired, so it doesn't really follow canon after that. There will be 9 parts in total.**

**_One:_ Here**

Owen is drunk and angry when it happens. Drunk because he is trying to make himself forget, and angry because Gwen has finally got herself a conscience and walked away. Again. Like it hasn't happened three times before.

Ianto thinks that he worked out about what Owen and Gwen were doing before anyone else did (except maybe Jack, but then he's just one big mystery after another). Firstly because, as he has pointed out several times before, _he has eyes_, and secondly because, funnily enough, he is also equipped with olfactory senses. He could smell Owen's aftershave all over Gwen as he brought her her morning coffee, put two and two together, and realised that tactful silences and lots of industrial strength coffee would be the best route of action. (Ianto also thought about saying to her _do you have any idea what you're doing?_ or maybe _this is a bloody awful idea that cannot end well_, but he had already learnt the hard way that no one ever, _ever_ listened to him, so instead he just bit his mouth shut.)

Unlike Tosh, who needed a psychic necklace to help her connect the incessant blushing and flirting and Gwen's sudden flushes at nothing. Ianto still wonders from time to time just what she heard in his head, but knows better than to ask, and besides, on some level, he doesn't actually want to know. But it became the pterodactyl in the corner, so to speak, Owen and Gwen's increasingly sordid affair; the thing they all knew existed and none of them would say a word. Ianto, for his part, took to running a damp cloth over most of the flat surfaces in the Hub before he went home. After accidentally seeing a piece of CCTV footage that Tosh hadn't quite erased, concerning Owen, Gwen and the autopsy room table, then what appeared to be the morgue drawer, and then- Jesus Christ, was that his carefully organised reception desk? Was _nothing_ sacred? Anyway, Ianto realised that he could never be too careful. (Quite where Jack was while all this was going on, Ianto decided that he never wanted to find out.)

It all peters out in the end, Gwen deciding that actually this isn't something she can do and keep her sanity in any shape or form, and Owen sulks in the way that only he can. And none of them can say anything, because that would imply that they knew in the first place. It's ridiculous, really. But Torchwood rules are Torchwood rules and no one says _I told you so_, although it's a close-run thing from time to time. Ianto can't help noticing Jack turning away with words stinging his lips, Tosh blanching and leaving the room. He doesn't find it as difficult to keep quiet. He was hired for his coffee making, not his conversational skills.

But it's getting beyond late and into early-hours-of-the-morning-late and Jack is nowhere to be found and Ianto wants to go _home_, but Owen is sitting on the floor under the autopsy room table sulking with a bottle of Jack Daniel's, and there is no way that Ianto is leaving him here. He could break all kinds of things, make too much mess. (And Ianto _does_ have other things to think about, but not many, not since Lisa was killed.) So he sighs, and eases himself onto the cold floor beside their doctor.

"Owen," he begins slowly. He's got Jack off to bed several times, shaking hands carefully unbuttoning those pale blue shirts, telling Jack calmly that if he vomits over Ianto's shoes, then he _will_ find some way to make him die, and _stay_ dead. (Oh yes, he's not supposed to know that either. What a lot of things he can't talk about. No wonder he can't hold a straight conversation with anyone that doesn't feature the words _coffee, pterodactyl, there's been a report of some strange kind of-_ or _whoever it is that keeps_- in it.) But it isn't like this with Owen, and Ianto is more than a little wary.

Owen is drunk but far from the almost-catatonic state Jack can get himself into (but no hangover in the morning- some men have all the luck), and he offers Ianto a half-smile as the Welshman settles himself down.

"Drink?" he offers, holding out the bottle. Ianto takes the bottle without a word, then gets up and walks over to tip the little that remains down the sink. Owen makes a few expletives of protest, stumbling out from under the table to try and stop him, but co-ordination is obviously one of the earlier things to go with him, because he falls helplessly over. Ianto silently thanks his quick reflexes as he catches Owen before he falls onto the rather unforgiving concrete floor (_Gwen will never take you back if your nose is broken_. Ianto adds the thought to his list of things he'll never say).

Owen is warm, and heavy, and laughing. Ianto leaves the now-empty glass bottle in the sink and shifts Owen so that he can loop the man's arm around his shoulders.

"Come on," he says quietly. Torchwood is bigger than just the main Hub where they all work, and there'll be somewhere he can bed Owen down for the night. The two of them make a slow and ungainly progress through the Hub, Myfanwy screeching fit to burst in the roof because the lights are still on and it's late, and into the maze of corridors that only Jack and Ianto know their way around. There are plenty of rooms around here. Somewhere he can dump Owen, and just go home.

"You're mad, Ianto," Owen is mumbling. "Bloody mad. Fucking insane."

"And why would that be?" Ianto asks carefully, opening a door to his left and manoeuvring the two of them inside. A cot, a lamp, a table, a chair. One of the depressingly drab underground rooms Torchwood has to offer. It'll do.

"Why the hell are you still here?" Owen asks, as Ianto takes him over to the cot and unceremoniously lays him down on the mattress.

"Because someone has to make sure that you don't choke on your own vomit before sunrise," Ianto replies quietly.

"That wasn't what I meant." Owen is lying rather helplessly on the bed, obviously not in the mood to do anything to help himself. Ianto sighs and begins to unlace his boots for him.

"If I left, you'd all suffocate under the weight of your own crap and paperwork in about three days," he tells him. It's both a lie and it isn't. Owen is too out of it to even really notice. Ianto calmly tugs off both Doc Martens and leaves them, neatly lined up, at the foot of the low bed. He's just leaning over to help Owen out of his t-shirt (because right now he has little to no choice and someone's got to do this) when Owen's fingers close around his wrist. Tight. He carefully sits himself up, free hand splayed against the cheap mattress, an unreadable smile on his face. Ianto takes a breath and then Owen reaches up and pulls Ianto's face down to meet his own.

Owen tastes like booze and his mouth is sloppy against Ianto's, but it's the first contact that Ianto has had in _so fucking long_ (_"And who was your last snog with Ianto?" "My tragically dead girlfriend, you know, the one you murdered last week?"_ And that was a lie too, wasn't it, because when he woke up after Lisa tried to kill him, Jack's mouth was glued to his, and there was no way that the other man was trying to resuscitate him. Not unless resuscitation now entailed some form of rather complicated tongue work. Anyway. Yet more delicious lies).

"You'd actually let me do it. You'd actually fucking let me do it." Owen is laughing again, but his hand is still tight on the back of Ianto's neck and there's only a knife-edge of a decision now. Owen is so pissed he won't remember this tomorrow. Ianto wonders what exactly is in this for him and then thinks of the cold and resoundingly empty bed in his flat and murmurs:

"I could stop you if I wanted to."

"Oh really?" Owen sounds like he wants proof of this, but Ianto kisses him again instead, harder, deeper, and he feels Owen's eyes close, eyelashes fluttering against his face. Neither of them really want this, it's not even a thought that either of them have entertained before, but it's dark and it's cold outside (and in here too; is Jack really so cheap that he won't pay for heating?) and right now loneliness is the prevailing emotion. Owen has Ianto's suit jacket pushed back over his shoulders in seconds, landing on the floor and then his hands fist in the still-crisp white shirt underneath.

Ianto could walk away, and it's doubtful that Owen would remember this tomorrow. Instead, he pushes Owen back onto the thin and uncomfortable mattress, bracing hands on either side of the other man's head, their legs tangling together, Levi's sliding against the stiff black material of Ianto's suit. He could still stop this. He could still walk away. But if Gwen can fuck Owen, then lord knows he can. And Owen kissed him first. He will maintain that. Owen kissed him first.

He wakes up the next morning, five a.m by some kind of internal alarm, naked and entwined with an equally nude Owen. Ianto sighs quietly, and then carefully levers himself upright, picking up his clothes from the floor and then tugging the blanket over Owen, to give him some shred of dignity. If Jack even notices the shower going this early, and that Ianto has had to break his spare suit out of its storage locker, then he doesn't mention it. If he knows what Owen and Ianto did last night, then he only reveals it with a slightly too broad smirk. Ianto smirks back. _We all know exactly how good I am at ignoring common sense and making bad decisions, sir_.

Ianto tells himself that Owen doesn't remember. That waking up alone and stark naked with spunk on your legs isn't necessarily a sign that you slept with the secretary, and certainly the doctor doesn't mention it. Ever. It's a relief, to be honest. A break in a certain kind of tension and he no longer feels the urge to spit in Owen's coffee (not that he ever _did_. It would ruin the masterpiece that his coffee is). Owen doesn't know what he did, doesn't care, wouldn't even consider that it could have happened.

But then there are afternoons when Ianto catches Owen looking at him for a little too long, and he wonders.


	2. There

_**Author's Notes:**_** I obviously don't own these guys, so being sued would suck :D I started writing this series just after **_**Greeks Bearing Gifts**_** aired, so it doesn't really follow canon after that. There will be 9 parts in total.**

_**Two: **_**There**

Owen tells himself that he hates every inch of her. Her smile, her skin, her hair, her lilting Welsh accent that used to faintly annoy him, and now makes him want to- well, he'll leave it at that. It makes him want to do _something_. Fuck her or kill her, one or the other. Who really knows? And Owen hates himself for thinking like this because it was only ever supposed to happen once or twice or three times and instead he let it become a standing arrangement and he forgot the golden rule: Don't Become Attached. But he did and he shouldn't have done and it is too late now. Much too late.

It's not even as though they were being discreet about it, towards the end. Jack's desk, the downstairs cells, everywhere but Tosh's workstation because Gwen had drawn an invisible but firm line, making it very, inescapably clear that that was off-limits. Owen still winces at that. He's not entirely inhuman, after all. He's cruel, unbelievably so sometimes, but he still has a conscience and he's still human. Just about. Still. Maybe not human enough for Gwen and her _but everyone must have bleeding hearts and FEEL, damn you, FEEL!_ approach, but then even Mother Teresa probably didn't measure up. Owen knows that he's bitter. He… doesn't care.

But he begins to think that he may have fucked Ianto.

It's never mentioned and no one's even implied it, but shreds and shards of razor-edged memory slowly start to slot themselves into place. Owen vividly remembers being drunk, and he's watching Ianto hand out mugs of tea one day and thinks: _I kissed you_. It's a sudden and uncomfortable revelation, but if Ianto notices the way that Owen is staring at him he doesn't mention it. Just keeps on pottering about in that smart black suit and exchanging looks with Jack. Owen sometimes thinks that the two of them have their own private language, at least in the Hub; they're the only ones who actually seem to know what's going on. Ianto may not see himself as a member of the team (if that Cyberbitch taught them nothing else, she taught them that), but in some small ways he's closer to Jack than the rest of them will ever be.

Owen grits his teeth and watches Gwen and Tosh laughing over something on her computer screen. For a moment, he wonders if it's CCTV footage of him and Ianto, a fortnight ago, doing- whatever it was that they did. Owen has a definitely hazy memory of kissing Ianto and then a hungover memory of waking up naked and sticky, and no idea what happened in between. Then he remembers that Ianto would have erased any incriminating footage, and forces himself to breathe. No one (except for maybe Ianto, and, come to think of it, Jack) knows what happened. Sadly, Owen doesn't know either. Shit.

Eventually, Owen forces himself to ask. It's late without being obscenely late; Gwen has rushed off home to Rhys (he won't think about that, no, he can't think about that) and Jack is _out_ (code for "whoring himself about in the local bars"), but Tosh and Ianto are still here. Actually, Ianto is always around. If he ever goes home, Owen has no proof of it. Anyway, he climbs the stairs to reception, where Ianto is hiding out behind the tasteless beaded curtain and fiddling with stacks of files.

"Ianto," he begins carefully, wishing he didn't feel like an awkward teenager, because he's fucked enough people; men and women (and alien, but only on two- ok, three occasions) for this to not be awkward, and he still feels uncomfortable.

"Owen. Can I help you?" There's a carefully plastered smile on Ianto's face, bland and unreadable. It makes Owen want to hit him, in some obscure and unidentifiable way. But hitting Ianto is not in the agenda of this conversation, so he clears his throat, and tries to find some of those useful word things.

"Ianto, about-"

"Yes," Ianto tells him calmly, smirking slightly. "Yes."

Owen wants to say something like _but what if my question was: are you harbouring yet more deadly machine people set to kill us all in the basement?_ but just about manages to keep his mouth shut.

"Oh."

"I didn't think you remembered," Ianto says lightly. "Has Jack been talking?"

Owen just about resists the urge to choke. "You told _Jack_?"

Ianto just gives him a look. It's about the most scathing look Owen's ever received, and he's had a few in his time.

"Unlike certain members of the team," he says dryly, "I do not feel the need to walk into work waving a banner saying _wham bam thank you ma'am_ every time I have sex."

"That was _one time_," Owen mutters sheepishly. He's feeling disconcerted around Ianto, and he doesn't like it. "So you didn't tell Jack then."

"No, I didn't." Ianto offers him another one of those bland smiles. "I believe that Jack worked it out all by himself."

Owen sighs. It would explain a lot. Jack has this frustrating method of knowing fucking _everything_. Ianto is turning away, abruptly cutting off the conversation, returning to his filing. Owen doesn't want that either, because he can talk to Ianto, or go home to his empty flat and not be able to look at any of the furniture because the ghosts of Gwen cling to everything.

"What was it like?" he asks, before he can stop himself. Ianto turns back around.

"Do you actually want to know?" he asks carefully, laying a couple of manila folders onto the table and turning to face Owen properly. Owen grimaces. He's suddenly getting the feeling that this isn't going to be a gushing account of his assets. Pity really. He shrugs his shoulders, sets his feet apart, lets out a slow breath.

"Go on, out with it."

"Fine." Ianto looks at him. "You were completely and utterly drunk, and I was half-convinced Jack was going to find us and ask to join in. How do you _think_ it was?"

"Ah." Owen grimaces. There's an awkward pause, and he reaches a determined decision, which he will later blame on Gwen and the voyeuristic nature of the Hub and the fact that for the first time in months Ianto actually doesn't look penitent or frightened.

"I am normally better than that, you know," he says slowly. "I'm _very_ good. Never had any complaints."

"Really." Ianto's tone is unreadable but he isn't backing away shrieking either. Owen reflects that maybe he does just want to know what Ianto is like in bed- he seems so restrained and uptight in those carefully ironed suits that he is curious as to what Ianto becomes after he unknots the tie- but who really cares. He doesn't need a motive and this entire fucking thing is Gwen's fault anyway.

"Wouldn't want to send you away with the wrong impression," Owen smirks, taking a step closer, "It would ruin my reputation."

"And we wouldn't want that," Ianto mutters sardonically, but is cut off as Owen kisses him, hard, the kind of kiss that could get Gwen wet and begging for it in seconds. And then he pulls back. He thinks for one very strange moment that Ianto is trembling, and then realises he's trying to keep from laughing out loud.

"Did you not get the memo?" he asks. Owen frowns.

"What memo?" he enquires carefully. Ianto gives him a wide grin.

"The one where it says that you _don't_ have to fuck every single member of the team," he replies.

Owen's initial response is to say _but how did you find out?_ but he manages not to. Instead, he pulls Ianto closer and kisses him deeply, proving a point even as he runs his tongue across Ianto's teeth, the way Gwen always did to him, and there's something hardening in a distracting fashion against his hip. Good. And Ianto is no longer attempting to burst out laughing, one hand warm on the back of Owen's neck, the other gripping his hip. They stumble backwards into a filing cabinet with an unsettlingly loud bang, and Owen reflects that the last thing they need right now is anyone coming up to investigate.

Ianto is obviously thinking the same thing, because he pulls back, away from Owen's grasp, and rapidly begins straightening his suit. There's no disguising his swollen mouth and the hard-on straining the front of his black trousers is pretty obvious too, but Ianto has apparently had some experience with this because he grabs a coffee mug and some files just in time to step back in and say goodnight to Tosh, apologising profusely for the noise he made dropping half his filing, and telling her to have a nice evening. All professional and calm, straight-suited Ianto to the core; but when Tosh is gone and Owen comes through the curtain, the Welshman turns to look at him with nothing but lust in his eyes.

Maybe there _is_ more to Ianto than coffee and filing and a really, _really_ sharp suit.

How they get downstairs Owen doesn't remember, nor can he work out quite how Ianto manages to get him into one of the rooms in the winding, labyrinthine corridors without touching him, but manage it he does, and there's a moment of _are we actually going to do this? Ok, we're actually going to do this_ before Owen pins the other man against the door, letting the black jacket drop to the floor, fumbling with the knot of the tie. Ianto's hands are roving over his back, fisting in Owen's white t-shirt. A breathless split-second where they both know it's a bad idea and _neither of them care_.

Owen finally manages to get Ianto's tie over his head and starts ripping mercilessly because there are just too many buttons on the crisp white shirt, and it's not as though Ianto doesn't have dozens more secreted all over the place. His teeth bite down the Welshman's neck, hard enough to make him gasp, not so hard that there'll be marks tomorrow. Ianto backs him across the room, quick and awkwardly, pushing Owen on his back on the single bed, finally dragging off Owen's t-shirt as he straddles his hips.

"Don't even think about it," Owen mutters, trying to get the leverage to flip Ianto over and finding that there just isn't enough space. Ianto laughs breathlessly and it sounds strange and somehow too intimate in this tiny grey-painted room, pressing down with his hips and bringing a groan to Owen's lips. "Jesus Christ."

Ianto's mouth streaks down Owen's chest, teeth leaving red marks down his ribs until Owen remembers that he's supposed to be the one proving that he's a decent shag, and finally manages to force Ianto over so he's the one gasping on his back. He starts pressing open-mouthed kisses along Ianto's jaw and down his neck, pushing his knee between the other man's thighs and making him moan softly, quietly, biting off the sound.

"I'm going to make you _scream_," Owen offers quietly, mouth right next to Ianto's ear, biting down on the lobe.

"Is that a threat?" Ianto enquires, and although he's panting now, there's still a hint of a laugh in his voice, as though this is all some terribly complex joke that only Jack will understand. Owen smirks.

"I wouldn't be proving my point if I didn't," he says. Ianto raises an eyebrow and Owen adds, "Besides, there's no one here to hear you."

"Is this your way of suggesting that we get on with this on Jack's desk?" Ianto enquires, giving Owen a look that tells him he's seen a hell of a lot of Gwen and Owen CCTV footage. But Owen doesn't want to think about Gwen right now, so he instead reaches a hand down to start attacking Ianto's belt buckle, and kisses him again to shut him up.

There's a lot of bickering, and biting, and grappling until the cot threatens to collapse beneath them before they settle on good, old-fashioned frottage, since Ianto refuses point-blank to let Owen fuck him outright, and there's no way Owen is going to let Ianto go where no man- well, very few men-have been before. They wind up tangled with scratchy blankets and each other, panting heavily, sweating and sticky.

"What were you trying to prove again?" Ianto enquires, one slick hand sliding down Owen's bare thigh as he tries to sit himself upright. For one moment, Owen honestly can't remember.

"I was trying to prove that I'm a good shag," he replies. "And now you have your proof."

"Well," Ianto murmurs, "It's a definite improvement on last time, although-"

"Oh come _on_-" Owen begins hotly, as Ianto finally unsticks his right thigh from Owen's left, uses the wall as leverage, and gets himself out of the pretty much trashed cot, and then he realises that the Welshman is teasing him. He's bloody _teasing_ him. He's so shocked and amused by this that he stays lying down as Ianto cleans come off his stomach and thighs with Owen's t-shirt and carefully dresses himself again, straightening his tie three times to get it absolutely right.

"I've got work to get back to," he replies with a little smile, cold and competent armour snapping back into place in front of Owen's eyes. And he walks out. Owen sighs, carefully easing himself off the bed to try and get dressed again, even though his t-shirt is utterly ruined and he just wants to lie there and go to sleep.

Jack is back when Owen finally finds his way back into the main Hub, looking too cheerful and sitting in his office humming something by Glenn Miller and reading an inappropriate-looking novel.

"Thought you'd gone home," he remarks, "It's not like you to stay so late, Owen."

The bastard knows. Knows and is going to be giving him significant looks for _weeks_. Owen sighs and makes his way upstairs without saying anything in reply.

In reception, Ianto has finished his filing and is now straightening all the tourist brochures in a tired fashion. He gives Owen one of his bland, unreadable smiles, and wishes him good night as he walks past, as though absolutely nothing has happened.

"You're fucking insane, Ianto," Owen mutters back.

"Probably," Ianto replies. "Have a nice evening."


End file.
